Why dost thou pray in
a Cutlass?
Why dost thou drive for Binghamton
when thou come from Scranton
up the snow burnt throat of 81?
Why wipe the ash
from the face of the radio?
Why crates of rotors, pliers, shirts
on the chewed velour of the bucket seats?
Why a map of Arkansas
and the Ozarks crumpled? From what
to what dost go? Between
what truck stop and which cinder
hutch, between what
omelet plate and what gray faced cop
in shades at ten o’clock at night, dost go?
Why dost at dark? Why stop
in the lot of a Radio Shack,
smoking, with the windows cracked?
Why black the dash lights now? Why
touch the hot key to thy cheek?
Why a town called Justice,
here, where dost sleep?